


Sweet Dreams are Made of This

by Spitshine



Series: HTP Fills [3]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Choking, Danger Kink, HYDRA Trash Party, Hydra Husbands (mention), In Every Sense of the Word "Unsafe”, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Riding, Topping from the Bottom, Unsafe Sex, brock rumlow's fragile masculinity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-01
Updated: 2015-10-01
Packaged: 2018-04-24 05:40:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4907536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spitshine/pseuds/Spitshine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>It's like being sexed up by a jaguar. Or a freshly-oiled gun.</i>
</p><p> </p><p>For a prompt on the trash meme: WS is conditioned to need sex after a mission. It's one of the rewards in his programming to guarantee he'll return to base and won't wander off again. Pierce takes care of WS from there. What Pierce does with WS is classified and never a matter of record. No one knows what Pierce does with him - gets WS a hooker or handles it himself - or even that WS, effectively, has a literal hard-on for HYDRA.</p><p>The system works perfectly until WS is on a mission with Rumlow's STRIKE team and the extraction goes to hell. Then Rumlow's trapped in a safehouse with what's left of his crew and a horny-as-fuck, psychotic, Soviet assassin, who isn't going to passively sit in the corner and whimper until someone gets him off.</p><p>Cue Rumlow going from JESUSFUCKNO to HELLFUCKINGYES. 'Cause virtue, order and professionalism mean fuck all when Rumlow's dealing with a sexy package of violence, who wants nothing more than to break every bone in his body AND ride his dick all night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sweet Dreams are Made of This

**Author's Note:**

> Standard trash warnings apply, even if I don't personally find this to be "Dead Dove" levels of horribleness.
> 
> Title from song of the same name.

Rumlow hangs up the phone and curses into his hands. “Shit shit shit.” Unfortunately his minor freak out is interrupted by Westfahl, of all people, who knocks _while walking in_ , the asshole, already whining about some shit Rumlow honestly can't be fucked to listen to. “Extraction is backed up twelve hours. We might as well get some sleep while we're stuck; apparently we got a mission back to back with this one. Woo-fucking-hoo, right?”

Westfahl has the balls to interrupt. “Sir? It's the Asset, uh-”

“Uh, what? Spit it out, huh?” Rumlow snaps. Truly, this is the mission from hell.

“He's just—awful antsy, you know? Creepin' us out.”

“Well, tell him to sleep too. And leave me the hell alone.”

“Sir,” Westfahl replies, already half out the door.

*

It's gotta be close to 3 am when Rumlow snaps awake to the creak of hinges, jolting upright on the bed. “Jac-” he starts, only to cut himself off before he can get the whole word out. That is not Jack looming in the doorway, that's the Soldier, sure as shit, still in his armor, menacing as hell even when he's not bristling with firearms. “Jeez, they couldn't even get the gear off before they put you to bed? Buncha morons, swear to...” He trails off as the Soldier stalks closer, a patch of darker black spilling across the shadow of the bedroom, looking 110% the predator he is, all coiled muscle and flashing eyes. Rumlow swallows, throat gone dry. “Stand down, Soldier.” For the first time in his memory, the Asset does not obey. “I said,” Rumlow repeats through clenched teeth, “Stand _down_ , Soldier.”

The Soldier does not listen the second time around any better than he had the first.

But he does drop to his hands and knees and crawl the rest of the way across the small room. He doesn't offer an explanation for his behavior, which honestly would freak Rumlow out even more—he only acts as he's been programmed to, and talking is hardly ever part of the programming. He just has to figure out what the program is and go along with it. That's all. Extraction is only... five hours and thirty two minutes away. His wits can last him that long, no problem.

Assuming the programming is not, “Kill the handler,” of course. Never know when you piss off a higher-up, they never fucking tell you til the repercussions are blasting through your skull. He's seen it. Wasn't pretty.

And then the Soldier is right there, in front of him, climbing onto—no, he's not getting on the bed, just pushing his face into, Jesus _fucking_ Christ, into his lap and Rumlow silently curses himself when his voice comes out in a tremble as he tells the Soldier to stand down for the third time with no effect. The programming is pretty god damned obvious now, what with the Asset nosing into his crotch, but why this program, why now, Rumlow hasn't a clue, except... is this really what Pierce has been doing in all those confidential debriefs? Shit. STRIKE is gonna bust a lung laughing when he—nope, not a one of those assholes can keep any secret but the big one, and if Pierce ever finds out he's had his dirty mitts on his special toy, his ass is grass, he can tell you that for free.

And he is gonna get his dirty mitts on the Asset, he can see that now. He crashed in just his boxers and the thin cotton is already damp and clinging from the Soldier's open-mouthed panting, breathing heavy like a little bitch in heat.

Though that's nothing compared to the curls of taboo pleasure that rip through his gut when the Soldier opens his mouth wide and takes him, fabric and all, practically down to the root in one go. “Shiiiiit,” Rumlow moans, quiet as he can under the circumstances. “Lemme just-” He tilts his hips up to wiggle his boxers off, thrusting deep into the Soldier's mouth in the process, but the Fist of Hydra just moans like a cock in his throat is what he lives for and, yup, those are the whites of his eyes.

As soon as he has bare skin to work with, the Asset sets to with a motherfucking will, gagging himself until long strings of sloppy drool hang down his chin, giving these happy—if muffled—little grunts of pleasure the whole time.

The room is practically pitch-black anyway, so Rumlow lets his eyes fall shut. It's unlikely that this is how Pierce would order his disposal, even if he was gonna be booted, and it's not like he'd ever have a chance against the Soviet assassin. The Soldier can off one of Hydra's best and brightest even with the cyborg arm deactivated and clanking uselessly against his ribs. That was another one of the repercussions they'd made him watch, part of his training to be chief handler when Pierce got to be above all that.

He groans, deep in his throat, when he feels a tongue lave sloppily across his nuts. There's hot suction pulling up shaft, that tongue again, swirling around his knob, suction dropping back down and pulling away, fast and messy but tight, so fucking tight, one, two more times and then the mouth is gone. “Wha—oh, no, no no no, I don't know what you get up to with Pierce but I'm no homo, alright? A mouth is one thing, but not thi-” Rumlow's jaw drops to hang limp and whatever other protests he had come out garbled. God knows how the Soldier got the armored pants and heavy boots off without Rumlow noticing, but they don't call him a ghost for nothing. He's bare from the waist down and lining himself up with Rumlow's cock, facing away thank fucking God, he's not a god damn fag whatever him and Jack, it's not like they kiss or any of that gay shit—holy _crap_ , that is the tightest, hottest hole he's ever been in. He can't stop the broken little cry he gives watching the dim shadow of his drool-shiny dick disappearing into the Asset's pale ass or the way his hips buck up into that vice grip.

The Soldier twists around to glare at him with those creepy murderdoll eyes, flat and feral like a wild animal's, and snap his teeth in a very, very obvious warning.

Rumlow shuts up and stops moving, twists his fingers into the sheets until he feels them white-knuckle to keep himself from pulling any dumbass maneuvers like grabbing the hips of the most dangerous weapon on the face of the fucking planet.

Even if those hips are bouncing and rolling like they're made of sin itself. His eyes are adjusting and he gives in to the sight before him. An ass is an ass, after all, and the Soldier has a damn fine one. It's like being sexed up by a jaguar. Or a freshly-oiled gun.

His hips twitch again, involuntarily, and metal fingers dig into his left hip, pinning him against the hard mattress while the Soldier's flesh hand closes around his throat. He tries to yell, to tell the Soldier to stand down yet again, but he can't get the air through his windpipe. His dick throbs, though, with all the blood that's not reaching his brain, and it's only a few more ruthless twists of the Asset's hips, not even enough time for the tunnel vision to close all the way in, and he's coming harder than he has in his whole life, every muscle in his legs and abdomen pulling taut. Rippling muscles work him relentlessly before they just clench down and hold, so tight it fucking hurts, hurts bad, but god damn if it doesn't feel good too. Better than anything he's ever felt before this whole fucked-up night. That's the Asset, the world's most feared assassin, an _actual legend_ , coming on his cock, just on his cock, wringing out everything he has as his body jackknifes up to curl around the Soldier's still-moving torso.

He slumps back onto the bed as soon as the Soldier's hands let go of him, gasping raggedly and blinking to clear the spots from his vision. He hears the clank of the Soldier gathering his gear even over the rushing in his ears and turns his head to watch. All that muscle coils and lets go, coils and lets go, still looking more like a jungle cat than anything human. A jungle cat with a long trickle of jizz running down one thigh, almost sparkly in the dim light from the phone charger.

“Half an hour,” Rumlow rasps. “Good to go again.”

The Asset looks over his shoulder, face in too much shadow to read. “I will return,” he says in Russian, pulling up his pants and stalking out of the room.

*

They're in the back of the Quinjet before Jack approaches him. “Did you—last night, did the Soldier-”

Rumlow can barely hear over the engines, but he knows better than to hear any more. “Nothing happened, you got me? Nothing. And if you thought something happened? It didn't. Maybe a weird dream. Everyone gets those after a fucked up mission like that, huh?”

“But-”

“You want Pierce to know you dirtied up his favorite little pet, dumbass?”

“Right. Nothing. Dream. Nothing.”


End file.
